An absolute, complete and utter coincidence
by AquilaCinereo
Summary: It was truly just a coincidence that the dementor happened to be passing by Godrics Hollow that fateful Halloween of 1981. The question is what will come of that coincidence.. Dark!Harry, Insane!Dumbledore, Insane!Voldemort, Violence, Language. Highly infrequest updates. Adopted from Miss Myself
1. Chapter 1

**An absolute, complete and utter coincidence**

 **Warning;** language, gore, general unpleasantness and _highly infrequent updates_

 _ **Disclaimer**_ _; we make no money of this and so there's no need to sue me (right?)_

 **Chapter 1**

 _written by miss myself, lightly edited by yours truly (mainly for a more consistent writing style, but also minor details)_

Gliding through the dark woods the dementor felt a familiar, dark presence on the other side of the small town it knew lay beyond the gathering of trees. What was the Dark Lord doing in this quaint little town? Absently curious, the creature glided to find out.

The dementor's spindly fingers coiled around the bark of the tree. Honestly, what was taking so long? The Dark Lord had not yet emerged from the homey cottage, and only one of the small family of three appeared to have fallen, which was rather odd as the dark wizard was usually quite quick when it came to murder.

A blinding flash of green light shone brightly through the upstairs window, and the dementor scowled. Or whatever you would call the expression a dementor makes when trying to scowl. You see, dementors doesn't exactly have eyes, more like their innate magic allows them to see an outline of living presences, and sense emotions of course. Unfortunately, humans tends to stay away and attack dementors with their own personal spirit animal ex machina rather than examine the fascinating beasts, so no one actually knew this fact. Hence, the dementor scowled.

When the green light faded, the dementor could only sense one being still in the small house. Which wasn't unexpected on it's own. What raised the creature's curiosity though was the fact that the remaining presence was neither old nor large enough to be that of Lord Vold- pardon me, _The Dark Lord_ , so what had happened?

The dark creature slowly floated away from the surrounding grove of trees and through the now empty doorframe of the cottage. It's bony hand brushed against a trinket that hung on the wall and the creature hissed. A bloody 'light' object, meant to repel 'dark' things. But hey, dementors are a form of demonic creature bound in their current shape through ancient necromantic rituals, and all demons had once been human souls, broken and tortured in life. So, we say, if the light side don't like dementors, they shouldn't punish the creatures for doing as creatures do, but rather not let people get tortured in the first place!

Ah, our apologies. We seem to have gotten of task. Now, where were we… oh, yes!

Gliding up the stairs, the dementor passed over the dead body of a dark haired man. A wave of annoyance swept through the creature. The man would have made a rather filling meal, but, well, there were plenty of fish in the sea. The dementor was quickly distracted from it's musings, however, by the taste of powerful dark magic emanating from the room furthest down the hall. Drifting over, it carefully pushed the door open, and was astonished to see a giggling child next to the corpse of a red-headed woman and a pile of robes carrying faint remnants of dark magic. What was this madness? The dementor froze in place when a wave of magic swept over it, centered around the small child. It took but a second for the dementor to decide that this mystery child would make an excellent meal, and there was no hesitance discernible in its next actions. It tilted the child's chin upwards, and brought it's head down to devour the soul of the toddler.

An odd sound rose from the dementor's throat as the child's soul left his body. The taste was indescribable, but the remnants of the soul of a muggle man it had consumed just last week brought up the image of the restaurant where he had feasted upon fried chicken every tuesday for years, called Popeye's. But before it could dwell on the matter it felt a sudden disturbance in the airborne magic that still lay heavy in the room. Focusing on it, the dementor noticed something not just strange, but remarkably so. The dark magic that had been slowly swirling around the toddler grew stronger, eventually forcing the dementor to turn away, unable to withstand the power directly.

When the high levels of magic suddenly died down the dementor looked back at the young child. His eyes were wide open, flashing intense shades of red and green. Not that the dementor could see that, what with having no eyes and all. It could however sense that the magic had somehow entered the child, but what had it done? The floor that the toddler rested on was frosting over, slowly turning to ice. The dementor cocked it's head slightly, never had it experienced something as extraordinary as this.

But then another question remained as well, where was the Dark Lord? Had the child killed him? Highly unlikely, but considering what it had seen the dementor didn't know what to believe, and no other explanation was forthcoming. Besides, it had been clear that the Dark Lord had intended to destroy every living being in the house.

A white light blazed outside, and the dementor let out an irritated growl. It knew that magic, Albus bloody Dumbledore. The vaunted Leader of the Light. The dementor made a speedy exit through the conveniently blown out wall, into the inky darkness below. Having recently fed it realized only an idiot would have remained, but knew some of its brethren would have been desperate enough to attempt the kiss on the aged man. Thankfully, it wasn't that desperate, of that stupid come to think of it. Apart from the Dark Lord, Dumbledore was certainly one of the most powerful wizards alive, there was no doubting that.

Thoughts and suspicions about the Dark Lord's possible defeat refused to leave the dementor's mind that night. There were few reasonable interpretations of what had happened, and all of them centered around a certain Harry James Potter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 _written by miss myself and, once again, lightly edited by us, the illustrious aquila (for writing style, and some_ _details that simply didn't make sense to me before)_

 _ **Disclamer**_ _; we make no money of this and claim no legal rights to the harry potter franchise (*distant sobbing*)_

Dumbledore sat silently at his desk, pondering. It was going to work. It had to work. Of course it would work, it was for the Greater Good after all. He had visited 4 Privet Drive earlier that week, and had placed the heaviest compulsion charms he could, forcing the young Dursley couple to detest the very existence of anything.. unusual.

He had also planted a number of false memories in Petunia Dursley's mind, causing her to believe that she had had a horrid relationship with her sister, when they had in fact been close as could be. Despite her initial jealousy of her younger sister's magic Petunia loved her sister, who was kind and caring. And as Lily had never hesitated to inform her beloved sibling of anything magical they had quickly gotten past that obstacle and remained close despite rarely seeing each other. At least, that was what had been.

After all, Lily Potter was dead, and Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Grand sorcerer, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, recipient of an Order of Merlin, First Class, and soon to be sworn in as the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, had killed her. What was a bit of posthumous defamation to that?

Oh, it was all done indirectly of course. After all, the Leader of the Light could hardly afford to have blood on his hands.

But yes, through delicate orchestrations and extreme levels of forethought, Albus Dumbledore had almost reached his goal.

He had left young Harry at the Dursley's doorstep but an hour ago. Everything had gone according to plan. If no one acted how they shouldn't Dumbledore was home safe. Harry would grow up to be the Gryffindor Golden Boy.

With his inherited pride and stubbornness on one side and the low self worth he was bound to have after the Dursley Harry would grow up starved for affection, timid and shy, but not broken, never broken. And then when Dumbledore sent someone for him as he turned eleven he could easily be kept ignorant of the ways of the magical world, accepting whatever he was told as gospel. He would be malleable, easy to bias against dark magic, and willing to do anything for those he loved.

The perfect sacrifical lamb.

Dumbledore had predicted every move the now toddler would make as he grew. He knew how many people had died, how many would die. He knew who was expendable. He knew who he killed.

In a literal sense, Albus Dumbledore had never murdered.

But how many lives had he claimed with his masterful web of lies, with his facade, in striving for his goal, in fighting for the Greater Good?

The answer, dear reader, is far too many. If it were possible to see on a person the deaths they had caused Dumbledore would not merely have blood on his hands, his entire being would be drenched in it.

* * *

A raven haired boy sat quietly under the cherry tree. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, revealing a flash of an odd scar on the seven year old's forehead as he leant against the tree trunk, deep in thought. Just an hour ago his uncle had, once again, yelled at him, saying how he was a worthless good-for-nothing freak who should have died with his parents before proceeding to beat him.

The only thing that kept the boy from lashing out at his uncle right now was the thought that his day would come. That one day he would kill them all. That he would see crimson running down the walls, staining the carpet, marking the boy as a killer. That he someday would giggle as his hands closed around their necks, squeezing until they would never take another breath. That one day he would laugh as their mutilated corpses would reek of death and hatred and-

The Boy Without Soul yearned for the day when he would finally end the Dursley's pitiful existence.

A butterfly fluttered above his head, and swooped down to settle on the boy's knee. He cocked his head.

Why did people value their lives so? Everyone, everything, all of it would meet its inevitable end. So why did people try so hard? To preserv? To cherish? To live? To _love_? Everything would die. Why bother? Why try to care so intently? If everything you cared for would be ripped away from you, why bother caring at all?

Why not shut yourself away, try not to care? Never care and never get hurt? But then, the-boy-without-soul had never felt much of anything. Amusement, annoyance. Nothing as deep or consuming as what everyone else seemed to want to feel.

Perhaps it wasn't their fault though. They were after all raised in a world where emotion was considered a blessing, even when all it did was tear them down, make them weak.

His bright green eyes, the colour of fresh leaves in spring, narrowed as the butterfly moved to dance over his fingers. His lips parted and, almost tenderly, they slipped out. The damned words.

"Avada Kedavra."


End file.
